


Melting Under The Full Moon

by germanjj



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Espionage, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, mentions of PTSD symptoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germanjj/pseuds/germanjj
Summary: After Uncle Rudy's short-lived but effective torture, Napoleon can't seem to be able to sleep. Illya's attempts to help soon unravel a thread neither of them is prepared to deal with.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 40
Kudos: 189





	1. Istanbul

**Author's Note:**

> This is me exploring yet another fandom. Been working on this for a while and it is not yet done. So if you want to wait until it's completed, I understand. Wanted to start posting now or otherwise, this just stays in my drafts for years.
> 
> unbeta'd, English is not my first language

**I.**

It was too hot to sleep. Too hot to breathe, or think or do anything really, but certainly too hot to fall into a deep and restful slumber. 

Three days in this hellhole of a safe house, monitoring their target, and Napoleon was ready to crawl out of his skin. He hadn’t slept in most of those days, not really, not at night anyway. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa once, while Illya and Gaby had tried to discuss the day’s plans with him. On one memorable occasion, he had found his face nestled against a cheese sandwich in the kitchen, having fallen asleep just as Illya was making himself some eggs. 

But at night, sleep didn’t come. Horror came instead, and memories. Of recent events, of Uncle Rudy, but of older, deeper horrors too. 

With disdain, Napoleon looked down on his slightly trembling hands and his sweat-stained shirt, and then at the clock face illuminated by the full moon. 

Napoleon groaned, contemplated to dissemble and clean his guns for a third time in two days. He was ready to do so, one foot already out of bed and on the floor when he heard a noise at his door. 

Napoleon froze in his movements, his breathing stilled. He went through several things quickly inside his head: the gun under his pillow he could feel with a finger of his left hand, the distance from his window to the ground (two stories, jump possible, broken bones likely) and the distance to Gaby’s and Illya’s rooms (Gaby across, Illya adjacent, aim gunshots to the right; otherwise they could pass through the thin walls into their rooms). 

None of these calculations were needed.

The door lock clicked and the door opened slightly, just enough so Illya could squeeze through. 

Napoleon swung himself to a full sitting position, catching Illya’s eyes. 

There was something sheepish in Illya’s expression as if Napoleon had caught him doing something embarrassing, but Napoleon also saw determination. He was even more intrigued now.

“You’ve gotten faster with picking locks,” Napoleon remarked to which Illya nodded curtly. 

“You could have knocked,” Napoleon added, waiting a beat.

Another nod. 

Only then did Napoleon register the blanket and pillow Illya was holding to his chest, both of which Illya now placed neatly on the floor between the bed and the door. 

“Are you intending to sleep in here?” Napoleon asked, not moving from where he sat, not taking his eyes off Illya, who was a dark figure in the shadows of the room. 

“Yes,” came the reply, and then Illya lay down, fighting with the blanket, getting back up to fluff his pillow and then down again, apparently now satisfied with his chosen sleeping arrangement. 

Napoleon closed his eyes, a long-suffering sigh building inside his chest. 

“Why?” he asked, feeling stupid to even voice such an obvious question.

“So you sleep too,” came the reply from the floor where Napoleon could barely make out Illya’s frame.

Napoleon released the sigh, rubbing his face, feeling suddenly very tired. “Excuse me?”

“You sleep when I’m close. We have important day tomorrow and need you at your best. You stay here alone, you don’t sleep. I sleep in your room, we both do.”

Napoleon wanted to protest immediately, but then he paused. Illya was right. The only times he had actually gotten some sleep since Rome were with Illya around. 

“Normal reaction to what Uncle Rudy did to you,” Illya kept on explaining, his voice now lower. “Electro shocks can cause stress and panic and sleeplessness. I rescued you, so your mind thinks I’m safe to let guard down around.”

Napoleon stayed silent. Illya’s words had been nothing but matter-of-fact, no hint of mockery or pity. 

“How do you know I couldn’t sleep?” Napoleon asked.

A huff traveled from the floor all the way to Napoleon’s face as if Illya had laughed right at him. There was the mockery. 

“You slur your speech when you’re tired. Also look like idiot with sandwich on your face.” Then, “Also, I can hear you are awake through your tracker.”

“Ah.” Napoleon was suddenly thankful for the semi-darkness in the room that concealed his reddening cheeks. Since the whole ordeal with Uncle Rudy and the nuclear bomb, Napoleon hadn’t felt the need to remove the tracker Illya had placed in his shoes. 

He knew they were there, knew Illya had kept hiding more. Napoleon would find all the other ones and return them to Illya in their playful nightly game. Except for the ones in his shoes.

“Stop thinking, Cowboy,” Illya chided him from the floor, sounding half asleep already. “Go to sleep.”

Napoleon stalled for a long moment, hesitating to follow Illya’s advice is if it were that simple. And then he lay back down, under the covers and, miraculously, he did.


	2. Istanbul, continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Uncle Rudy's short-lived but effective torture, Napoleon can't seem to be able to sleep. Illya's attempts to help soon unravel a thread neither of them is prepared to deal with.

**II.**

The smell hit him first. Rank, dark and foul, and Napoleon clenched his jaw and forced his body not to react. He’d walked through a maze of small rooms and long corridors, all empty, seemingly abandoned for quite some time evident by the rotten food in odd corners and the animal droppings almost everywhere. The two guards he’d found at the door probably never even set foot into the building. Someone had paid them to not let anyone through and they’d never ask any questions. 

“You got him?” Gaby’s voice cracked through the speaker of his radio transceiver, and even though the connection was bad, he could hear how worried she was. 

As was he. 

They’d lost Illya two days earlier during a routine stakeout. He’d been paired off with Gaby and upon their return, Illya was nowhere to be found. Napoleon hadn’t slept since and he suspected neither had Gaby. 

“Not yet.”

“Hurry.”

Napoleon clenched his jaw again, this time not because of the smell he’d gotten used to alarmingly fast. 

Their intel said Illya was dead. That a group had captured, interrogated and then shot him the same day. 

A man not older than twenty had sung like a bird once Gaby had waltzed into their makeshift third rate bond villain nest after they had found out about Illya. It hadn’t been that hard to track them down. What had taken them time was to find where Illya was held. Precious time. Operating on the assumption that Illya might be dead. The hired attackers had sworn on it. 

But their favorite Russian was not one to die so easily so Napoleon would believe it only when he saw the body with his own two eyes. 

Which he did, when he rounded the next corner. At least that’s what he thought for a full, agonizing second, his stomach turning violently and his neck growing cold, before he could see the faintest rise and fall of the chest, bound in blood crusted ropes, of one Illya Kuryakin, slumped over on a chair. But alive. 

Napoleon rushed towards him, one hand to his neck to find a pulse, despite the movement, despite Illya’s eyes focusing on him briefly before rolling back in his head. 

“Peril, can you hear me?”

“Ngh.”

As far as responses went, Napoleon was perfectly happy with the noise coming out of Illya’s mouth. 

“I got him,” Napoleon informed Gaby, “He’s alive.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, shoving the transmitter into his pocket and then starting to cut Illya free from the restraints holding him to the rusty chair in his this very empty, very bleak, windowless room. 

“Sasha,” came a pained whisper from Illya’s mouth and Napoleon looked up at his friend, finding tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Napoleon cupped Illya’s face, made him meet his eyes. They were red-rimmed and glassy as if he’d been crying for hours. His lips were chapped and bitten. Napoleon cursed. “What did they give you, Peril?” he asked but earned only more tears and a weak mumble Napoleon couldn’t make anything of. 

“We’ll get you out of here, I promise.” He told him as he cut off the last of the ropes and braced himself for Illya sagging against him as he was no longer tied to the chair. 

“Sasha,” Illya whispered again, the word burning into Napoleon’s ear and laced with so much sadness, Napoleon felt a pang of pain in his own chest.

**III.**

“Your directive, Mr Solo, was to stand down,” Waverly remarked, his voice crystal clear through the radio transmitter, echoing in the living room of their safe house. 

Napoleon shared a look with Gaby, whose lips had thinned.

“And truthfully, Sir,” Napoleon emphasized the last word, “we ignored it as the - and excuse my language - bullshit directive that it was. If we hadn’t found him when we did, Illya would be dead.”

Waverly paused on the other end. 

“And,” Napoleon continued, half to make his point and half to find an outlet for the anger that didn’t seem to leave him about how quickly they had all given up on Illya. They’d taken all the information to Waverly and he - to both Gaby’s and his surprise - had confirmed it through another source. “We would not know about the new serum they have been experimenting on.”

Gaby crossed her arms over her chest. “You told us this was about a simple arms deal. No word that we are dealing with chemical weapons,” she chimed in, her voice clipped and far angrier than even Napoleon had ever heard her talk to anyone.

“That was our information, yes.”

“Well, your information, Sir,” she stretched the word just as Napoleon had, “has been shit, hasn’t it? We can not even be sure those two things are connected. Illya says they didn’t even interrogate him. So what did they want with him?”

Another pause from Waverly in which Napoleon and Gaby shared a look. “How is he?” Waverly asked over the com, changing the subject. 

Napoleon rubbed his brows. “He’s going to be fine, at least that’s what your doc said. Whatever it is they gave him does not seem to be fully functioning yet. He insists he didn’t give them any vital information. Let’s just hope it doesn’t do permanent damage.” Napoleon’s heart stuttered at the thought. He brushed it off quickly, convincing himself that Illya was going to be fine. That Russian was made to withstand much stronger weapons.

“I will pull you from this mission,” Waverly announced suddenly, paper rustling in the background of the transmission that Illya thought for a second he had misunderstood. “Your flights leave in the morning. Ms Teller, I expect you here in London. Mr Solo and Kuryakin will take on a mission in the United States. Please inform me immediately if Mr Kuryakin is not able to travel in the morning and I will move your flight. Nevertheless, I’d like you out of the country sooner rather than later.”

Gaby had jumped to her feet. “Do you mind telling us what’s going on? We’re not done here! They’re still working on the serum and perfecting it as we speak.”

“I do mind, Ms Teller.” Waverly sighed. “But I will tell you regardless. As you have already remarked, our information was - compromised. We will have to evaluate the partnership with our contact. In the meantime, I will not have you walking around blind. You’re reassigned. Good afternoon.”

Gaby and Napoleon stayed in the silence that followed the abrupt ending of the call, each processing the sudden change of their mission. 

Napoleon had carried an unconscious Illya through the back streets of Istanbul not 24 hours ago. A trusted doctor had checked him and declared him though dehydrated and exhausted to be physically quite alright given the circumstances. Napoleon’s hair was not even dry from the shower he had taken just before their call with Waverly, not having left Illya’s side for more than a bathroom break. 

Now not even a week into their second mission Illya lay in the adjacent bedroom after being rescued in the nick of time from what had been sure to be a painful and slow death, and Waverly was ending their mission. 

Gaby groaned loudly, defeated, and looked up at Napoleon. “I guess I’m packing my bag then. Will you look after Illya? I will go downstairs and prepare our exit.” She put up her hair in a ponytail and changed her shoes to slip seamlessly into the role she had played in the last few days. 

Napoleon nodded. Usually, he would have fought harder to switch plans, to be the one ending the mission and not playing bedside nurse. But both of them knew that with Gaby and Napoleon, their roles were pretty well assigned like this. 

“Goodnight, Napoleon.”

“Night, Gabby.”

**IV.**

Napoleon opened the door carefully, conscious of the possibility that Illya may be fast asleep and not wanting to disturb him. 

He closed the door just as quietly, his gaze on the tall frame of Illya in his bed, eyes closed. His chest was rising evenly and Napoleon let out a deep breath, one he had been holding ever since they discovered Illya missing. He’d realized in the last few days that he’d grown rather fond of his Russian friend, their whole group really, and he was beyond relieved they had found Illya in time. 

His slow, deep breaths put Napoleon at ease instantly, something he was hesitant to explore further. He’d always been an active man, busy, his hands and mind in five places at once, never running out of steam. Illya had a curious effect on him, like a cooling balm or a good tea. Slowing him down without lulling him in. Calming him. 

“Are you watching me sleep, Cowboy?” Illya asked from his bed, his voice groggy but much stronger than it had been an hour earlier. 

“Indeed, I am, Peril,” Napoleon admitted cheerfully, half to mask his embarrassment of having been caught in his musings about the man before him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Illya sat up slowly, propping himself up against the headboard. “Head still hurts. Also, I remembered something.” He furrowed his brows as if he was holding on to a memory he might otherwise forget. 

They had talked earlier, getting as much information out of Illya as fresh as possible, even if his sentences had come out jumbled and incoherent.

“There was a fourth person, in beginning. A woman.”

“Did you see her?”

Illya shook his head, looking up to him. “She never came into room. But guards talked about her waiting outside when the man with needle came.”

“Do you remember anything else about what you might have told them?”

“No. I told them nothing and they did not ask. They used me like experiment, not hostage.” 

Napoleon was still not entirely convinced that Illya had been simply a victim of opportunity but he would admit that if he was about to test the potency of a new drug, he would try to get the tallest, strongest looking man he could find. 

“If it wasn’t a truth serum, what do you think it was supposed to do, then?” Napoleon asked carefully, the image of Illya crying forever burned into memory.

“I don’t know,” Illya replied after a while. 

Napoleon was also not convinced that was the truth either. 

“So who’s Sasha?” he changed the subject, curiosity mixing in his voice. “I’ve read your file so I know she’s not family. A girlfriend? Secret wife?”

Illya had never offered even the smallest comment about any female acquaintance and Napoleon was curious to know who could affect Peril so thoroughly. 

“None of your business, Cowboy,” came the cold and immediate response and Napoleon was impressed how absolutely deadly Illya managed to look even sitting in a bed, his hair in disarray. 

His heart sank. Illya’s reaction likely meant whoever the woman was Illya had loved so dearly; she was now dead. 

“Goodnight then, Peril.” Napoleon turned to leave, just as Illya called his name.

“I wanted to thank you,” Illya said, voice low. “I remember you cutting me loose when I was in that chair. I remember you being here while I slept. That’s now twice that you saved my life.”

Napoleon turned towards him again, this time taking a few steps into the room and only stopping right before his bed. “Let us not start counting, Peril. I am sure we will spend a good portion of this new partnership saving our behinds. I’m afraid that’s part of the job.”

Illya looked up at him, face serious and not at all impressed by the lighthearted tone Napoleon was trying to go for.

“Thank you, Napoleon,” Illya said again.

Napoleon suppressed the urge to shuffle his feet. “You’re most welcome.”

**V.**

“How’s your head?” Napoleon studied Illya across the aisle, his tall frame pressed into the too-small seat and he looked altogether miserable. Which could stem from the early morning flight in the miniature seat or echoes of the drug his captors had been giving him. 

“Okay,” came the unhelpful response, clear even over the sound of the engine. 

Illya had been in a grumpy mood the whole morning as if he couldn’t help but be appalled by how he was treated as a prisoner. 

Napoleon averted his eyes when Illya glanced over and furrowed his brows in a question, which was a clear sign that Napoleon had been staring too long. 

He himself wasn’t faring much better than Illya. He’d barely slept during the night, even though he should have after not getting any sleep at all while Illya had been gone. But trying to fall asleep alone in his room, even with the knowledge of Illya just a wall away, alive, had made him even more anxious. His mind had been replaying the picture of Illya tied to the chair. Shallow nightmares when he did fall asleep had ended the scene with Illya dead, with his head lulling back and dead eyes looking up, so Napoleon would wake up with a jolt and not willing to try again. 

He shifted his focus to the newspaper in his lap. He’d purchased it together with a stale cup of airport coffee he’d thrown away halfway through and now he flipped to the business section. 

Napoleon glanced around himself. The plane was surprisingly empty. The seat next to him was free, so was the one on Illya’s left. The next passengers where four rows in front of them, a young family with two children. Behind them was the wall to the lavatories, the proximity another possible reason for Illya’s foul mood. 

Napoleon looked back down at this newspaper and the tall, white envelope sitting between the newest scandal from Wall Street and an advertisement for a new model of a car Napoleon very much would like to get his hands on one day.

In the envelope was a small expose of their mark and a grainy photo of said man. Alexander Washington, owner of a chain of dry-cleaners and laundromats. According to their information, currently tied up in a number of low-level art heists and high-level arms deals. 

Napoleon looked back at the photo of the young man. One side of his family had come from Russia, his parents grew up in New York, poor and on the verge of living on the street several times; Alexander sure had found a path to make his way up in the world. 

Napoleon read the name again, something itching in the back of his head, the same itch he’d felt when Waverly had called them the day before. Then the puzzle piece clicked into place, something that had been nagging him ever since Illya had sagged against him, sobbing and calling out a name.

He hesitated, glancing over to where Illya was engrossed in a book. He let his eyes travel not for the first time to find his new partner’s features soften whenever he felt unsupervised. Napoleon sighed. He knew it would be a mistake to bring it up. He also knew he would be making that mistake. 

He cleared his throat. “I will ask you a question, Peril,” he started, voice low so it could just carry across to Illya. “And I want you to think about our mission, the lovely family in front of us, and Gaby, and - maybe the good for our countries - before you decide to murder me.”

Blue eyes looked up to him, thin and cold. Not a good start. 

“I realized something earlier.” He paused briefly. “Sasha is not a girl's name, isn’t it?”

There was not much of a reaction from Illya, just a deep, threatening intake of breath. 

“It’s short for Alexander if I’m not mistaken?”

Illya didn’t blink. If anything, Napoleon was convinced his eyes grew even colder as he was pulling a physical wall between himself and Napoleon. He was also convinced that his Russian friend could suck the oxygen out of a room by sheer force of will. 

Napoleon’s eyes landed on Illya’s hand, holding the book, knuckles now white.

“What are you saying, Cowboy?” Illya’s words cut through the air but he did ask before launching an attack, so Napoleon felt touched. 

He asked himself where he was going with this. Why he needed to know. “I am saying that I think there was a man in your life that you loved very much and-” 

“You think I’m a hom-” Illya hissed and there was so much disgust on his face, Napoleon felt his stomach turn. “You see me leering after men? Staring at them as you do with your women?”

Napoleon closed his eyes for a second. “I was talking about love, Illya,” he said, surprising himself by how sincere he was. How important this was to him. “And no. I have never seen you look at even the most handsome gentleman we encountered. But neither are you looking at the ladies. I’ve been trying to give you your space with Gaby, repeatedly, and nothing has come of that either.”

Napoleon was startled by Illya’s sudden movement with which he stood up, the book falling to the floor, the seatbelt snapping to the side. 

“Conversation is over,” Illya hissed under his breath, looming over Napoleon even from a few feet away. 

There was a small voice in Napoleon that was a little bit disappointed at the anticlimactic end of the conversation. Hadn’t it been for the metal tube that was keeping them all thousands of miles in the air, he would have loved a good brawl between colleagues. Instead, he watched Illya stalk past him to the lavatories, the only place he could actually escape to if he wanted to walk away. 

“Peril,” Napoleon tried again when he was right next to him. 

Illya hesitated long enough that Napoleon ceased his chance, speaking softly. “I am sorry. It doesn’t matter to me either way who you go to bed with. You seemed to have loved this man very much and it seems that you have lost him. I am sorry for that loss. I am sorry that whatever these bastards gave you brought up old, painful memories. That’s all I wanted to say. I will not bring it up again.”


	3. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya gets injured during a mission and Napoleon has no choice but to hide them both in an unusual safehouse.

**VI**

"Peril, for Christ's sake, don't move," Napoleon hissed, and finally, Illya next to him froze. 

They were pressed together from knees to shoulders, the two of them barely fitting in the broom closet in the basement of the Met, which had seemed a good idea to hide in at first glance but now turned out to a rather poor choice. They were trapped in complete darkness, and Napoleon cursed his luck that he hadn't taken his time to explore the artwork before they started. Now he would most certainly have a hard time coming back any time soon, and it had been such a long time. 

The mission had royally gone to shits. Someone had tipped off their target, the buyer of a pretty impressive amount of grade a US Army weapons hadn't even shown up, neither had any physical evidence of the deal, and Illya and Napoleon had walked right into a trap. 

Which had put them into the current predicament of hiding out in the aforementioned broom closet, pressed tighter together than Napoleon liked without at least a nice meal and a good drink, and waiting for the hurried footsteps of some henchmen to subside in the distance. 

Illya groaned in front of him, low in his throat, and for a split second, Napoleon's mind went entirely out of the window, his cheeks heating up, something he was glad Illya couldn't see. They were in a rather compromising position, facing each other in the dark, Napoleon's arms in front of him, trying to separate their bodies but only managing to make it worse. Napoleon wondered how he would be able to remove his left hand from where it was currently resting against Illya's thigh, dangerously close to a place another man shouldn't touch without an explicit invitation from the other party. 

He wriggled carefully, pulling his arm up and brushing against Illya's hip in the process.

Another groan, and Napoleon was ready to speak up when he found his hand coming away wet from where it had grazed the fabric of Illya's pants. Then Illya slumped forward.

"Fuck."

What Napoleon had mistaken for sounds of pleasure was Illya groaning in pain every time Napoleon had touched a wound above his right hip. A wound that was bleeding profusely. 

"Stay with me, Peril," Napoleon whispered, letting Illya's head fall against the crook of his neck. He listened to the sounds from outside, but couldn't hear anything. Still, it was too early to leave their hiding place, and Illya was likely running out of time.

Napoleon's pulse sped up. If and when they made it out of here, they would need a safe spot where he could take care of Illya's wound, hoping it wouldn't turn out to be one that needed help from someone with more than Napoleon's rudimentary skills. The hotel they had been staying in was out of the question; Napoleon had no doubt that it was compromised too and they couldn't just walk into any hospital around the city.

That left one other option. 

Illya sagged further down, only being propped up by Napoleon's body and the wall behind him, and Napoleon made a decision.

**VII**

A woman in her 60s opened the apartment door in a three-story building with a clean floor and a hallway smelling like someone had cleaned it just that morning. Her eyes were wary, landing on Illya first, who had one arm slung around Napoleon’s shoulder, and his eyes closed, and then Napoleon. Her face changed from suspicion to surprise to delight and finally settled on anger. 

“You’re dragging some roadkill into my house, Leo? You couldn’t come to visit - I don’t know - just because?” Her voice was deep and raspy but not unkind, like the voice of a woman who was used to shouting at unruly men but couldn’t help but love them anyway.

“Sorry Aunt Maggie, we’re rather in a tight spot at the moment, and my Russian friend here needs help.”

“Russian?” her eyes widened. 

“It’s a long story I gladly tell you over a cup of tea or a good scotch. May we come in?”

She didn’t answer, just nodded grimly and stepped aside to let the two men pass by.

“Catherine,” echoed her voice through the narrow hallway once the door was firmly shut behind them, and another woman appeared, around the same age, hair a light shade of grey and done up in a bun. “We need your help.”

They settled Illya on the living room sofa, his tall body not fitting the short furniture, both legs dangling uncomfortably over the edge. 

Catherine shooed them away to get room enough to look at Illya. Pulling back the dark stained shirt, she revealed Illya’s light-skinned belly and a nasty looking cut above his hipbone. 

“Mags, bring me my bag,” Catherine ordered without looking up. 

Napoleon, standing at the end of the sofa where Illya’s head was propped up on a cushion, watched his aunt leave the room without protest and reappear a minute later with a ragged looking medicine bag. 

“The wound is not that bad,” Catherine declared, looking up at Napoleon. “It needs cleaning and some stitches, of course, but his reaction is very unusual for a man his size. Anything I need to know?”

Napoleon had the urge to chuckle. He knew what Catherine was asking. ‘Did he take any drugs?’ Now that was a fascinating thought. Napoleon doubted that Illya would take so much as a painkiller.

“He was an involuntary guest of questionable hosts just last week,” he explained to her. “I’m afraid they weren’t overly concerned with regular meal times.”

Catherine nodded, then pulled her lips into a thin line. “And giving him another week of rest had seemed too daunting for your employer?”

Napoleon stayed silent. No need to confirm something he himself felt anger rising in himself for not having put a stop to.

When Catherine began to clear Illya’s wound, Illya opened his eyes briefly, hissing at the pain. His body went rigid, one hand balled into a fist. 

Without much of a thought, Napoleon reached for one of his hands and held it, squeezing it to make Illya look up to him. “You’re being patched up, my friend, no need for violence.”

Illya’s wild eyes found him, and the tension left his body. 

“Now be a good boy and hold still,” Napoleon instructed him cheerfully. When he looked up again, he found his aunt’s eyes on him, a raised eyebrow and a nod towards where he was still holding onto Illya’s hand. 

He let go of it slowly, trying not to draw any more attention. His aunt cackled. 

He rewarded her with a blinding smile. “Can I use your office, Aunt Maggie? I should probably report in.”

**VIII**

“Look who decided to join us for dinner,” Napoleon exclaimed as a weak-looking Illya entered the kitchen. He was holding his side, his face pale, but he looked much better than he had when Napoleon had dragged him through the city. 

“If I may,” Illya said politely. 

“Of course, don’t be ridiculous.” Aunt Maggie stood up to immediately pull the chair back for Illya to sit. She then proceeded to collect a plate, cutlery, and a glass of water which she placed in front of Illya, who winced when he sat down slowly.

“Be careful with that, or you’ll pull my stitches,” Catherine scolded him sharply. 

Illya stilled, his eyes flickering between the two women before falling on Napoleon, who had a hard time hiding his smile. 

Illya, in any domestic setting, was a sight to behold. Between two fussing and bickering women, however, was an entertainment, Napoleon hadn’t known he would enjoy until now. 

He took pity on his friend when Aunt Maggie started piling food on his plate.

“Peril, I’d like to introduce you to my Aunt Margarete.”

“Don’t you call me Margarete, boy,” he was immediately chastised. “It’s Maggie,” she smiled at Illya, who, in turn, was looking with wide eyes at him. 

“You brought us to your family?” Illya asked. 

“That woman practically raised me. You can trust her. And-”, he smiled at her shoveling a particular big portion of potatoes on Illya’s plate. “-she’s working for the FBI, so she’s not exactly a civilian.”

Aunt Maggie huffed. “I’m a secretary. Doesn’t exactly make me a special agent.” Then, to Illya. “Now eat. You need to get your strength back.”

Napoleon was pleased to see Illya follow the order and even seemed to enjoy the food. God knew when the man last had a home-cooked meal. 

“And the lovely lady to your right is Catherine, head nurse of the New York Presbyterian Hospital. She stitched you up.”

Illya nodded at her. “Thank you,” he said sincerely before shoving another forkful of food in his mouth. 

“Drink that glass of water first, then you can have the wine.” Aunt Maggie placed the bottle on the table and three glasses with it. Napoleon laughed out loud at the expression on Illya’s face, being fussed about didn’t seem a regular occurrence for him. 

“I believe our Comrad is a little overwhelmed by your care, Aunt Maggie.” 

She huffed again. “Oh, just let an old lady be, Leo. Since we can’t take care of our late husbands anymore, god rest their souls, and you’re not visiting, I’m jumping on the chance whenever it presents itself.”

Napoleon prayed Illya hadn’t noticed. 

“Leo?” Illya repeated, a hint of a smile on his lips that was almost worth the humiliation of that old nickname, as Illya’s default expression was usually grim and broody.

“If you mention it outside of this room, my dear Peril, I’m afraid I’ll have to make you disappear.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Illya retorted, saying the words like had been hearing them in movies and had been eager to try them out.

A warm feeling spread in Napoleon’s chest at the sight of it, of Illya relaxed and smiling. 

In their profession, even though Napoleon always made it a point to carve out some time to enjoy a good meal and a beautiful woman, he wasn’t shy to admit that he did miss spending time just talking to people whose company he enjoyed. 

“Excuse me, would you please point me to the bathroom?” Illya said when he had finished his glass of wine and was halfway through his second glass of water. 

“Down the hall to the left,” Napoleon said just as his aunt was starting to speak. 

He could feel both his aunt’s and Catherine’s eyes on him, when Illya excused himself and minding his wound, slowly made his way down the hall.

“You like him, do you?” Catherine asked as soon as Illya was out of earshot. 

“Hmhm. He might just be plotting my untimely death,” Napoleon mused, suddenly serious, and completely missing what the question had actually meant.

“What do you mean?” Aunt Maggie asked, just as they all listened to Illya opening a door and then, after a beat, closing it again to open another.

Napoleon exchanged a glance with both women. “My new boss implied that we have a mole in our organization. And all signs are pointing towards our Red Peril.”

Waverly’s voice still rang in his ear. He hadn’t sounded too convinced, but concerned enough to alert Napoleon. In a bit of a temper, Napoleon had hung up on him, but now Waverly’s words wormed themselves through Napoleon’s mind.

“And what do you think?” Aunt Maggie asked, her good mood and fussing gone. Back was the fury of a woman who had lost her husband and two brothers in a war and was ready to fight anything and everything who threatened her loved ones. 

Napoleon looked down the empty hallway. “I am not sure. My instinct says no, but this man is very good at hiding things.”

**IX**

They were quietly working next to each other, Illya washing the dishes in the big, copper sink - a monstrosity surely of Aunt Maggie’s creation -, and Napoleon drying them off, taking every dripping piece out of Illya’s hands, never touching him, never falling out of rhythm. 

Napoleon was acutely aware of Illya’s presence and still lost himself in the peaceful domesticity of it all. A thief and an assassin, the best of the best, being content doing household chores after a good meal. 

Napoleon’s eyes never left Illya. Had he not known, he would never notice that Illya was hurt underneath the shirt, one of Napoleon’s old ones, nothing betraying his perfect composure if not for a slight wince whenever he would turn too far to the side. 

And there was something else Napoleon couldn’t take his eyes from. Illya’s face looked as if there was a particularly tricky puzzle he was trying to solve, all of which was showing plainly on his face as if he too, like Napoleon, was letting familiarity creep into their lives, causing them to hide less of what they felt. Of who they were.

There was a sharp stab of regret when Napoleon thought about how expressive Illya’s face must have been as a child. How they surely had beaten it out of him over his teenage years. And how vulnerable and open and alive it would have been now, hadn’t it been for the profession he had fallen into. 

“You sent me to wrong room,” Illya started, not halting in his movements, his words as if he had been trying them out in his head before speaking them, mulling them over, not sure whether to even bring it up. “Why?”

Napoleon stopped, breaking their perfect rhythm, and put the last plate down. “What did you notice about that room?”

Illya didn’t meet Napoleon’s eyes, which so intently lingered on him. “Fake bedroom. Likely guest room only. Neither woman sleeps in it.”

“And you know the layout of the apartment. Have you noticed anything else?”

“Only one bedroom left. Neither woman sleeps on sofa.”

Napoleon hummed in agreement. 

Illya finally stilled, both his hands grabbing the sink, and he moved his head to meet Napoleon’s gaze. “Your aunt and the nurse are-?” He didn’t finish.

“Both their husbands indeed died in the war,” Napoleon explained. “But I’ve barely known my uncle. Catherine has been with Aunt Maggie for as long as I can remember.” 

“You exchanged their secret for mine?”

“I have not told them about you, Peril, but me sending you into their bedroom might have made them suspicious.”

“Why?” Illya’s knuckles were white where he grabbed the sink so hard that Napoleon felt the ridiculous urge to reach out and cover his hands with his own, to ease him off that edge, to show that there was nothing here to be afraid of. 

He resisted the urge. Instead, he leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest, just to give his hands something else to do. “This was not a trade,” he started as a way of explaining, “You knowing about them is of little value to the bad guys chasing us on a weekly basis. But your trust is vital not only for my survival or yours but for Gaby’s too.”

Illya’s stare tugged at Napoleon’s heart. The shock there, but more so the surprise. 

“You share my secret so you can earn my trust?” Illya asked, but Napoleon could sense a hint of amusement behind the words. 

“You are my friend, Illya. Your secret is safe with me,” Napoleon heard himself say, words pouring out of his mouth he hadn’t thought carefully about, much less had made the decision to say out loud. But having said them, he knew them to be true. 

Illya’s eyes widened, his cheeks blushing, and he broke their gaze and turned back around to his task, not uttering a single word. 

Napoleon waited another beat, holding out for any reaction at all, but nothing came except for the sudden change in Illya’s posture. Calmer, more relaxed. As if Napoleon had managed to take some weight off of Illya’s shoulders, to ease some tension out of his body. 

It was enough to ease some of Napoleon’s own tension. As if that burden had been a shared one and was now lifted off of both of them. 

“You guys okay?” comes a voice from the kitchen door, making them both look up. There was no mistaking Aunt Maggie’s meaning, and to Napoleon’s surprise, it was Illya who spoke first. 

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”

Napoleon watched them exchange a glance, some silent understanding he himself was not privy to. 

“You boys good to share the guest room? Or does one of you want to have the sofa? It’s not the most comfortable, but it will do if it has to.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to answer. “The guest room will do just fine, Aunt Maggie.”

**X**

When Napoleon returned from the bathroom, Illya had changed into his underwear and a t-shirt, a rare sight, his bare legs and feet making him look almost vulnerable. He was folding his clothes methodically into a neat pile that he then places on the chair next to the bed. 

"Are you certain it is okay for me to share the bed?" Illya asked, suddenly and without turning around. "I can sleep on sofa in the living room."

"Peril," Napoleon said and waited until Illya turned around and met his eyes. "I have no problem sharing a bed with you to sleep. I've shared many beds with many people, some of whom I neither have nor have any desire to sleep with."

Illya nodded slowly. 

Then a thought formed in Napoleon's mind. "Unless, of course," he hesitated. "-you are uncomfortable with it. If you want, I can take the sofa, and you have the bed." Napoleon surprised himself with how much consideration he showed Illya. He usually wasn't particularly mindful of the feelings of other members of his own sex. 

Illya's cheeks had tinged a little more, heightened by the alcohol he had for dinner. "Not necessary," he declared but did turn around when Napoleon removed his own pair of pants.

It struck Napoleon as odd that a few weeks ago, he wouldn't even have noticed it. But now the thought had taken residence in his head he remembered and noticed all the occasions when Illya would present almost extreme modesty and politeness. 

"You can look, you know?" The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back. "I'm not gonna throw a punch at you just because you catch a glimpse of my bare knee."

Illya's tensed shoulders told Napoleon it had been the wrong thing to say. He sighed. 

"I sure hope you show your - pursuits - a little less subtle interest or these poor chaps would never know that they're even allowed to look at you, without fearing repercussions."

"I don't," came the reply after Napoleon had folded up his own clothes and slipped into his side of the bed while Illya was still rooted in place.

Napoleon's glance fell on Illya's hands, twitching. 

"Wait, you mean - never?" 

Illya's jaw tightened. 

"Peril!"

He turned to Napoleon, his breathing labored, his hand switching to the tap-tap-tap on his side. 

"You are allowed to, you know?" Napoleon continued softly once Illya was facing him again. "Just be discreet. I'm certain U.N.C.L.E. wouldn't give a monkey's ass either way."

Illya deflated before him. His gaze to the floor, his hands hanging loosely to his side. 

"I can't. Looking gets you killed. Looking gets other people killed."

Understanding rang through Napoleon like a bell. 'Sasha' he wanted to say, as an example, as an answer. But he didn't need to say it out loud, the name ringing loud and clear in the silence between them. 

"I am sorry, Peril," Napoleon said, voice low and then refrained from speaking any more. He had promised not to bring up the subject, and for Illya's sake, he was determined to keep his promise. 

He switched the light off on his side of the bed and turned his back to Illya. He didn't fall asleep for a long time, and going by Illya's breathing patterns, he didn't either. 

**XI**

The nightmares were the worst. If Napoleon were to be given a choice, he would take insomnia, the bursts of sudden, inexplicable fear over the nightmares any time. 

Since Rome, they would occur every night. Sometimes with low intensity, and sometimes he would wake from them sooner than other times, but he was never granted a night without. Not even with Illya in the room, even though those were the better nights. 

Sometimes he would remember all of it, would see himself tied to a chair in a dark room, in the desert, in the backyard of the ruins of a bombed building. And he would always be alone.

This night, it was him on the chair, stuck in a room, not unlike the one he had found Illya in. But he wasn’t alone. Men were attacking him, were fighting him, punching in slow-motion. Napoleon couldn’t breathe. He kicked around himself, kicked them off, but he couldn’t get any air into his lungs. 

Then he woke up.

Napoleon opened his eyes and found a man on top of him. A hand was covering his mouth, an arm across his chest pressed him into the bed. 

“Shhh, Cowboy,” the man said, and Napoleon fought his way frantically through the haze, his heart exploding in his chest, his legs tingling with the adrenaline and need to jump up to fight the man off an leave. Leave. Leave.

“Cowboy,” the man spoke again, a calm voice but a stern one.

Illya. Napoleon blinked and willed his body to give, his muscles to relax. 

He gasped for air when Illya removed his hand and eased off his chest just enough that Napoleon could take big breaths of air.

But Illya did not ease off him completely, his body a strong weight above him, coiled and ready to react. Napoleon could feel the tension in Illya’s thighs on the outside of his own. 

Illya’s eyes were staring at him, unblinking, and it was Napoleon who broke the stare, looking down on himself just to find the bedsheet gone, his shirt ripped to shreds, and a lamp stuck halfway between the bed and the nightstand. 

Had they fought? Had Napoleon been violent?

“Did I hurt you?” Napoleon pushed the words out, his throat still tight, his heart still rapid in his chest. 

“No.” Illya shook his head. “You had bad dream.”

Napoleon felt the urge to laugh out loud at Illya’s statement. He felt sweat trickle down the hollow of his throat. 

“You can say that.”

With the lamp toppled over and the bedsheet on the floor, Napoleon wondered how much noise they had been making and expected his aunt to storm inside any second now, shotgun first. 

But then he realized why exactly nobody would set foot in here. How it must have sounded from the outside.

Napoleon felt a blush creeping over his face and was now acutely aware of Illya’s weight on top of him for an entirely different reason. 

Illya was still watching him, his eyes glued to his face. Even as he slowly and carefully eased off of him, as if Napoleon could make a run for it any second, his eyes never slipped to Napoleon’s chest, which was now almost bare with only half of his shirt still clinging to him. 

Hot shame surged through the back of his neck as Napoleon realized that he wanted Illya to look. Wanted his eyes to follow the line of his neck down his collarbone to where his chest rose and fell with every breath. 

He wondered if it was his pride that made him want that. Or something else. 

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt,” Napoleon whispered to make light of the situation, and then Illya did look down at the remnants of the shirt, and Napoleon witnessed his friend’s eyes linger, just for a brief moment. One that was nevertheless enough to satisfy his pride.

“Shouldn’t have fought back then,” Illya quipped, and Napoleon couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face.

With slow, deliberate movements, Illya untangled himself from Napoleon, every shift calculated and not one unnecessary brush against his arm or press against his groin. 

He steadied the lamp and tidied up what was strewn over the floor. 

“You good, cowboy?” Illya asked before he joined him on the bed again, the weight and warmth more welcoming and soothing than Napoleon would have liked to admit. But his heartbeat had calmed, and the images in his head were already fading. 

“Yes,” and then, after a pause, “thank you, Peril.”

But when he closed his eyes to sleep, it wasn’t the nightmare waiting for him, it was the image imprinted in his mind of Illya’s lips parting just slightly when his eyes had fallen on Napoleon’s naked chest.


	4. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so SO sorry this took so long. And I can't promise when I'll be done with the last chapter. Life and especially work is kicking my butt right now. Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate ever single one of you!

**XII**

Napoleon entered the airport's men's room and immediately noticed Illya using an excessive amount of paper towels to dry his hands, which had probably long been dried off. The smell of this place attacked him right after, and Napoleon's jaw clenched in disgust. He hated when a plan involved public bathrooms. 

Illya glanced up upon his entering and then away, the perfect neutral face of someone who was just there to do his business. 

A bald little man with an atrocious aftershave pushed past Napoleon and left the room. 

Illya's posture changed immediately. He threw the paper towel in the basket provided and, in two long strides, went to the stalls to open the last one of them. 

"We're alone?" Napoleon asked, albeit somewhat rhetorically. Illya wouldn't have stopped his enthusiastic hand drying if they weren't. 

"Da."

With a sigh, Napoleon followed Illya into the stall, then closed and locked the door behind them. At least there was a little more space and light this time, but Napoleon wondered why he found himself so frequently in tight spaces with Illya. 

They didn't waste any time. Illya produced a string of wires, a little recording device, and tape from his jacket pockets he had slipped in there a few minutes earlier at a brief encounter with Gaby, who now waited patiently outside. 

Napoleon removed his shirt and undershirt, and a second later, he was standing in front of Illya, his chest bare.

Illya's eyes flickered up to him, too quickly for Napoleon to decipher the expression, and then Illya swiftly and expertly attached the microphone to Napoleon's body. 

No stray glance, his fingertips not lingering a second too long on Napoleon's skin.

Napoleon found himself being irritated over the fact.

_'It must be my pride'_ , Napoleon told himself, a shallow drive to be desired even if that desire came from a man. It also was pity, something Napoleon would push down not to let it be visible enough for Illya to see. Napoleon was, he knew, a generally good looking man. To a worrying degree, he'd also exclaimed that he wouldn't fault Illya for looking his fill whenever he wanted to. 

So why didn't he?

"Done," Illya said curtly, his eyes now meeting Napoleon's. 

Napoleon nodded and flexed his muscles, his shoulders, to make sure the construct was not sitting too tightly and would allow natural movement. 

A fracture of Illya's mask broke then. A faint blush on his cheeks, his eyes flicking from side to side, just to avoid looking at what was right in front of him. Something Napoleon only noticed now that he was looking for it. 

"Uhm," he made a noise of hesitation with the listening device Illya had set up.

"What?" Illya drew his brows together, his eyes looking back down at Napoleon's chest. 

"I think it-," he moved his shoulders again. "It's too loose."

Illya conveyed his disbelief very clearly with a huff, but he still adjusted the tape once more, his fingers back on Napoleon's chest, brushing through the coarse hair. Expertly, swiftly, not a second too long.

Napoleon hated it and was disgusted by his own strong reaction to it. His thoughts flickered over to the memory of Illya on top of him, of how he'd looked then.

Napoleon shivered at the heady mixture of past memory and present touch, and Illya stilled, eyes downcast and hands hovering midair. 

They stayed like that for a long agonizing minute, neither moving nor breathing.

Napoleon was convinced Illya would be able to hear his heart thrumming in his chest and felt utterly embarrassed. 

His fascination with Illya and his own vanity was clearly getting out of hand, and Napoleon mentally shook himself, breaking the moment at last. 

"That should do it," he clipped and then reached for his clothes, quickly putting them back on. 

When Illya threw him a puzzled, studying look, Napoleon ignored it and instead opened the stall door, stepping out while still buttoning up his shirt. 

A young man had just entered, now eying the two of them emerging from the stall together, with wide eyes and reddening cheeks. 

"Good day, Sir," Napoleon cheerfully threw at him and walked past him out of the room. 

**XIII**

The morning a few days later was a brisked one. Napoleon enjoyed the brisk ones, the fresh air, biting into the skin of his face, sharp but clean. Being able to breathe deeply before it warmed up and a sweetness entered the air, making every breath coated with molasses. 

He decided, however, that five minutes of enjoyment was undoubtedly enough, clothed in nothing but his thick but relatively short bathrobe, so he stepped off the balcony overlooking a beautiful awakening London and closed the French doors behind himself, positively moaning at the warmth that was greeting him inside his sitting room.

His for the last two nights, he regretfully added inside his head as he stretched after a particularly restful sleep in the wonderful king-sized bed with a mattress thicker than the ones he usually slept in and linen of Egyptian cotton. 

And with his, he, of course, meant Mr William Daffordshire’s. The intel gathering of the last few days had been rather successful, and Napoleon felt himself regret the impending end of this job. He enjoyed this place. 

And then, Napoleon stopped short. “Illya,” he said, surprised to find him in his room. Illya had been sleeping in his own room, albeit adjacent, and only with the shared knowledge of the tracker in Napoleon’s shoe firmly in place. Napoleon contemplated if he really was losing his edge around his newfound friend and colleague, that Illya could sneak up on him like that. 

“I wanted to go over the-,” Illya started and then stopped as if something made him lose focus mid-sentence. 

“I apologize,” he stumbled, blushing faintly, and turned around.

That was the precise moment Napoleon became aware of two things. One, his stretching earlier had loosened the belt around his bathrobe significantly, and two, Illya had been distracted by staring at what was essentially Napoleon in his full naked glory.

And then a third realization slammed into him. A memory. One he had replayed inside his head so much that it was now frayed at the edges, like a photograph he kept pulling out of his pocket to stare at, again and again, trying to decipher what about it didn’t let him forget. 

‘You’re allowed to, you know?’

‘I can’t. Looking gets you killed. Looking gets other people killed.’

There was a slight jump in his chest, a quiet warning that he was stepping onto a dangerous path, but then Napoleon lived for that jump, that thrill.

“If you want,” Napoleon started, his voice almost steady, “you can turn back around.”

He watched Illya tense, his shoulders tightening. Napoleon wished he could see his face, reading in his posture that Illya understood exactly what Napoleon was offering.

“Cowboy,” Illya said, his voice rough. 

“Or you can say no, and I will get dressed, and we go over whatever you came here to talk to me about. And we will forget this ever happened.” Napoleon’s throat was dry. He wondered why it was so important to him how Illya would choose.

Illya didn’t choose for a long time. 

Napoleon watched his back, rigid, and his fingers tapping at the side of his legs, a curious dance of tension and excitement. 

Until he did choose. 

Illya turned around slowly, his eyes finding Napoleon’s first as if to determine if this was some kind of elaborate and cruel test. Napoleon kept his face as open and honest as he was capable and nodded. 

And then Illya did look. His eyes jumped quickly to Napoleon’s crotch and right back up, as if he couldn’t resist but then wanted to take his time and appreciate every inch of the gift he was given. 

And a gift was all it was. That was what Napoleon told himself as Illya’s gaze raked across his face, his neck, his collarbone, every glance like a gentle touch Napoleon could feel on his skin despite their distance. A gift to Illya, nothing more. A generous one at that, one that only Napoleon had the privilege to offer. 

It was.

For Illya.

Napoleon almost felt as if he was supposed to look away, to offer Illya some privacy. As if standing there naked didn’t come close to the intimacy and vulnerability Napoleon could witness on Illya’s face. A slight blush on his cheeks, a sheen to his eyes, his lips slightly parted. Illya did take his time, and Napoleon felt oddly proud of him. His eyes followed every plane and valley of Napoleon’s body, the dip of his hipbones, the rise and fall of his chest, the skin of his thighs, down to the curve of his calves. Napoleon felt a warmth spread through him, akin to a blush but deeper, more satisfying. 

He reveled in the sensation of Illya’s eyes on him. Loved being engulfed in this heady mix of curiosity and admiration. 

And want. Napoleon felt that too but didn’t let himself indulge too much in what feeling that invoked inside him. 

A small gesture, a hand being raised halfway, broke the trance Napoleon had found himself in, and Illya’s eyes fluttered back up to him, a question in them. 

Napoleon wondered when his heart had started beating inside his throat. But he understood the request Illya was making in anything but words, and before he could dive too deep into his own motivations, he removed the robe entirely and let it pool around his feet.

Illya licked his lips in what Napoleon was sure was a subconscious gesture, and he stepped forward, close enough he would be able to touch him if he stretched out a hand. A shiver ran down Napoleon’s spine at the thought that he would.

But he didn’t. He stopped in front of him, locking eyes with Napoleon briefly as if to make sure that this was still part of the offered agreement. 

Napoleon had been in crazy situations before, none of them quite like this one, none of them where he did not know precisely how he had ended up there. Or if he wanted out.

And yet he let it continue. He let Illya explore his naked body with hungry eyes, and he marveled in the restraint on his friend’s face, could sense it like waves radiating off his body.

Napoleon was positively out of his mind when he raised his right hand, palm up in an offer for more. 

Illya’s eyes flew up to him, a breath of surprise the first noise either of them made in what felt like hours since Napoleon had stepped back into the room. 

His cheeks were deep red now, his lips full and rosy, and Napoleon’s heart jumped as he realized that he was noticing that in him. 

A shaking hand found his.

Without breaking their gaze and with more confidence than Napoleon was feeling, he slowly guided Illya’s hand to his body.

A shudder went through Illya when his fingertips first touched Napoleon’s chest. A feather-light caress, still guided by Napoleon.

He watched Illya’s eyes fall close when his hand graced down to his belly button, and he realized right then and there, that he was in over his head. 

He let go of Illya, but not to stop him. He was equally curious and scared of what Illya would do now, how much he offered him here, and how much Illya wanted to take.

He certainly hoped Illya knew the answer because Napoleon had lost any sense of reason the second Illya had turned back around.

Illya hesitated, then slowly, agonizingly so, continued his path over Napoleon’s body.

To Napoleon’s surprise, he moved back up to his face, let his fingertips slide over Napoleon’s cheeks, grazing over the light stubble there, and Napoleon felt himself blush now, feeling as if this was the most intimate thing they had done so far. 

Then his hand traced down his neck, back over his chest, playing with the short dark hair as if it was something utterly foreign to him. He let the back of his knuckles graze down Napoleon’s rips, then back up, only to stroke lightly over his shoulders and down his biceps. 

Illya’s eyes followed every movement of his hand with an intense curiosity, and Napoleon watched him bite down his lower lip, following the bop of his Adam’s apple every time Illya took a shallow breath. Another questioning glance again, briefly, apparently not finding any reason to stop, and Napoleon winced inwardly at that. If only Illya knew how far gone he was, how deeply into unknown territory, not sure where Illya’s desire to touch him ended, and Napoleon’s desire for Illya to touch him began. 

Illya moved slowly around him, letting his hand follow the dip of his shoulder blade, tracing down every knob of his spine. Napoleon couldn’t suppress his own body’s reaction, although he knew it was coming when the flat of Illya’s palm cupped his behind. 

A shudder ripped through him, a gasp being forced out his mouth, and his eyes widened when he realized just how very aroused he was. 

Illya lingered behind him, the heat of his own fully clothed body seeping into Napoleon’s naked skin. He could hear his shallow, ragged breathing, could feel it touching his neck. A second hand found his other cheek, and it was a curious sensation; Illya’s hands so much bigger than a woman’s, and Napoleon had never felt something quite like this. 

Then Illya squeezed, and Napoleon couldn’t stop the moan coming out his mouth, as if it was pulled from deep inside his soul. Something old, something primal. Illya came back around to face Napoleon, looking over him, his breathing heavy, his pupils blown wide and dark. 

The men stared at each other, and Napoleon sensed that Illya just as much as him, did not remember how they got here, and had no idea where to go from here.

Illya’s gaze fell between them where Napoleon’s body was clearly and strongly showing interest, and then back up for a second, and Napoleon couldn’t breathe with the intensity in Illya’s eyes, with the open and naked want showing in them, hitting him like a punch. 

Napoleon felt himself nod to a question Illya hadn’t asked out loud; a tiny, simple gesture, almost subconsciously, and Napoleon blinked once and then Illya’s hand, warm and broad and strong, was surrounding him. 

Napoleon’s hand flew up to grab onto Illya’s shoulder, his knees suddenly not holding him upright on their own. Illya’s movements were careful and slow, obviously not being used to this angle, and Napoleon found Illya’s eyes flicker between the motion of his hand and the reaction he caused on Napoleon’s face. 

Napoleon’s own breathing sped up, a sudden change of pace and angle, making him groan out loud. 

“Show me,” Illya said, his voice a low rumble that crept through every crack in Napoleon’s soul. 

“You’re doing pretty good already,” Napoleon admitted, struggling to keep his eyes open from the pleasure rippling through him. 

“Show me,” Illya pleaded with more force, and Napoleon found his own hand closing over Illya’s, guiding him like he had been minutes, lifetimes earlier. 

Illya stepped even closer, the distance between them almost impossible, and Napoleon’s legs were barely supporting him anymore. But the hunger in Illya’s eyes touched something deep inside him, like a knot being freed, and then, losing himself in the craziness of the moment, he took Illya’s hand and showed him exactly what he liked. 

It didn’t take long. And if Napoleon would have had any rational thought left, he would have felt embarrassed about that. But as it was, he was over embarrassment and shame, his body marveling at the feeling of another man’s hand on him, so much bigger, so much harder than a woman’s touch. It made him blind with want, his movement growing sloppier and more erratic with every second he got closer to the edge. 

His hand was moving Illya’s frantically between them, he was biting down his own lips to stop himself from making too much noise, from speaking profanities or endearments he wasn’t sure, and then it shot through him, a wave starting in his groin and crashing through his whole body. Napoleon lost his mind, lost his movements, accidentally shoving his hand too far, pressing into Illya’s crotch more than once, who didn’t move, who cried out and pressed against him and through the haze of his own orgasm, he felt Illya’s head fall on his shoulder, his face buried against his neck as his whole body trembled. 

They stood there for a long time, after. Panting, leaning against each other, the evidence of what they’d done glaringly obvious on Illya’s pants.

Illya was the one to move first. He stepped back, one step, then two, and then slowly raising his head to meet Napoleon’s eyes.

A flicker of wonder passed through them before being replaced by pure and utter fear, and Napoleon’s heart broke. This was not what he had wanted. This was not even close to where he thought this would go when he had asked Illya to turn around. 

He didn’t know what to say. No words were coming to him, no reassurance that everything was going to be okay between them. 

They stared at each other, and Napoleon wondered what Illya saw when he looked at him. A naked man, still trying to catch his breath. A man he had made to feel like this. He wondered what he saw on his face, almost asking him, as Napoleon felt completely out of his depth. 

A knock on the door made them both jump. 

“Napoleon? Is Illya with you?” Gaby asked through the closed door. 

Illya’s eyes widened, but he kept standing there, like an animal frozen between fight or flight. 

“Give us ten minutes, please. We will meet you in the restaurant for breakfast,” Napoleon answered her, surprising himself with how casual he sounded. 

He looked at Illya. “You may use my bathroom,” he told him and finally, finally, got into motion. He picked up his robe off the floor, draping it back around himself, and while he watched Illya stagger into the bathroom, he walked over to his own bag in search of a new pair of pants for his friend. 

**XIV**

Breakfast was awkward at best, the tension between Napoleon and Illya palpable, and Gaby kept on glancing between them, anger growing on her face. 

It was a rather uncomfortable setting, and Napoleon could barely force food down his throat. It seemed Illya had completely given up on trying, his own food cooling before him, his coffee untouched. 

Gaby tried her best to make light conversation, having to uphold a cover in public, engaging both but only succeeding in some half bitten off phrases from Napoleon and a mumble or two from Illya. 

It was torture. 

Napoleon glanced over at Illya’s face, tight and closed off, and tried out the thought inside his head which had haunted him ever since Illya had vanished in the bathroom and left him alone to finally put some clothes on. 

‘I am attracted to you.’ And then: ‘I am attracted to men.’

He felt only slightly nauseous at the thought. The ridiculousness of the statement far stronger than whatever he had felt, not an hour ago, in his room. With Illya. 

It was laughable. Napoleon Solo was not attracted to men. He had an interest in woman, always had, and not once had a man so much as grabbed his attention more than an aesthetic appreciation for a well-fitting suit or an exceptionally fortunate bone structure. 

Then his gaze fell on Illya’s hand, cradling the tiny cup of cold coffee as if it was the enemy and had to die a slow but painful death by asphyxiation, and Napoleon felt heat creep up his neck all the way to his cheeks, and he had to make himself look away. 

He felt like a little schoolboy again, having his first crush. It was ludicrous. 

“Enough.” Gaby’s nostrils made some impressive movements, barely containing her anger. “Gentlemen?”

She bit out the word, all but throwing her bread knife on the table and stood up. 

Illya and Napoleon hurried to follow her lead and got up as well, trailing behind her to the elevators. 

Once inside the small and very private space, she swiveled around, and Napoleon would have enjoyed the view, a fierce woman glaring up two men twice her size, wasn’t it for the reason he had given her to do so. 

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she demanded, phrasing it like a question when it was anything but. 

Illya’s gaze fell to the floor, and Napoleon didn’t even get to finish his intake of breath when her eyes found his, and she pointed at him. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing. You two are acting like blushing teenager who accidentally had sex the night before.”

Napoleon was stunned to silence. Next to him, Illya spluttered and began coughing, his fingers starting their dance on his sides. 

“Oh. _Oh_.” The anger seemed to leave Gaby all at once. “You did.”

She seemed to deflate before him, and Napoleon could suddenly find kindness in her eyes. And pity. It was the pity that hurt him, and he wondered if it was on his behalf or Illya’s. 

Illya vibrated with distress next to him, a ticking bomb, ready to go off any second. 

Napoleon wanted nothing more than to be able to reach out to him. 

But Gaby did it for him. She clasped one of Illya’s hands in both of hers, waiting patiently until Illya met her eyes. There weren’t any words once he did, just a small smile from her and a reassuring nod. She looked over at Napoleon then, one hand leaving Illya’s and grabbing his instead, squeezing in sympathy Napoleon wasn’t sure he deserved. 

She let go of both of them when the elevator came to a halt, opening the doors behind her. 

Her face slid back into a mask of professionalism, her back straightening. “Okay. Now, both of you, get over it quickly. We have a Nazi to kill.”

**XV**

Napoleon’s gaze hefted on the cheap clock on the wall across from him, which ticked so loudly, he was ready to stand up, rip it off said wall, and throw it out the window. 

Which still would be far better than talking to Illya, who was frozen to the spot next to him, dead silent. Napoleon was sure he would actually explode if he so much as breathed into Illya’s direction.

They’d gotten to Gaby, this time. The job had been done, going off without a hitch, when she’d been snatched right out of their midst. Three hours and two burning buildings later, they’d gotten her back, drugged and confused, unsure how much damage had been done. 

“Gentlemen.” A nurse stepped into the room, Waverly on her heels. Napoleon and Illya both jumped to their feet. 

“She’s going to be just fine. Two weeks of rest, and she can go back into the field.”

Illya met Napoleon’s gaze for the first time since they’d left the hotel, and Napoleon jolted at the wall Illya had pulled up, and that was now greeting him. 

Then Illya’s eyes softened as if he’s seen Napoleon’s reaction, and if Napoleon wasn’t mistaken, his cheeks colored just a little. 

“Napoleon, a word?” Waverly interrupted their staring. “Now would be good?”

Napoleon nodded towards Illya. “Peril.”

“Cowboy.”

“Peril has nothing to do with this,” Napoleon bristled, trying to keep his voice low and even. He earned a raised eyebrow from Waverly and a blank stare from Becky, Waverly’s trusted assistant, who had been tasked to record this meeting. 

“Be that as it may, Mr Solo,” Waverly continued calmly, standing behind his desk with the face of someone who couldn’t be fazed. “There’s a startling amount of evidence that someone infiltrated this organization, and it is my job to be sure we find out who it is. At this moment, everything leads back to Mr Kuryakin.”

Napoleon clenched his jaw and worried his teeth, biting back the words he wanted to say. 

The truth was, he knew Waverly was right. There was something off, had been since Istanbul, and their group wasn’t big enough to offer too many suspects to go around. 

He himself had suspected both Gaby and Illya, but ruled them out almost immediately. 

But Napoleon couldn’t help the tiny voice inside his head that accused him of having been played by the Russian, like so many before. That he might have sensed some - tendencies in Napoleon and had shamelessly used them for his advantage. It made Napoleon sick to think like that, and he didn’t believe it truly. But he couldn’t yet rule it out. 

“Two weeks. You’re going to be his shadow, following his every move. Officially you’ll be grounded until our dear Gaby is back on her feet. I want you to use the time to find out who our Russian friend really is.”

An image flickered before Napoleon’s eyes, of Illya and his eyes, blown with lust. He shook his head to push the image away and opted for glaring up at Waverly one more time, not saying a word. 

He didn’t want to admit that very likely, given what was basically his first official vacation in years, he’d likely spent it spaying on Illya regardless.

“Any questions, Mr Solo?”

Napoleon stood. “No, Sir. Am I free to go?”

Waverly hesitated, studying his agent. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. See you in two weeks, Mr Solo.”

**XVI**

Napoleon stomped out the cigarette he had not been too interested in and put some cash on the table before he grabbed his coat and slipped into the night. 

Across the street, Illya had left the restaurant and seemed to opt for a stroll back home to his flat rather than taking a taxi.

Following him had been easy, and Napoleon almost felt appalled by it before remembering that Illya should have no reason to suspect him or anyone else following him. 

Napoleon had lost - or rather, missed - him a handful of times, mostly due to boredom on Napoleon’s part, and Illya had turned up shortly after, groceries or newspaper in hand. 

Napoleon wondered what he cooked for himself when he was alone. What he read. Napoleon had learned that Illya kept a strict workout regiment, starting with a long run Napoleon had indulged in following the first two times before it was rather clear that even though he did change his route, that there was a pattern to it, corresponding to the day of the week, so he could sit that out and wait for him at the finish line. 

Sometimes, Illya followed those runs with boxing classes. It was those hours, when Illya would fight, bare-chested and panting, his Russian trainer urging him on, nothing but their grunts filling up the rundown basement of a laundromat, that Napoleon felt unease crawl up his neck. Felt his heartbeat speed up, his thoughts snap back to that hotel room and Illya’s hand on him. 

Napoleon watched only the first time, then resumed to listen through a device Illya hadn’t noticed yet. 

And then Napoleon had gotten sloppier. Had lingered too long or ventured too close. The truth was that he hadn’t slept well in his hotel room, he was bored out of his mind, and he couldn’t stop thinking. 

Napoleon was positive that Illya had discovered him even before entering the restaurant, and it sent a dangerous tingle up his spine. As if they had turned the surveillance into a cat and mouse game. One that Napoleon intended to win. 

He didn’t get to play for very long. 

It was dark already, the sun having vanished behind the cityscape an hour before, and only a few people walked the sidewalks where Napoleon would usually hide among. 

Illya waited for him at the front steps to his apartment, casually leaning against the column. 

His eyes flickered up to Napoleon once he was close enough to see his face in the streetlights. 

He didn’t greet him. Napoleon followed his silent invitation into the house, followed Illya quietly up the stairs, and into the sparsely furnished room. 

He’d been inside here twice the last week when Illya had been out. 

Napoleon had no doubt Illya was well aware, and so he didn’t pretend to look around like a first-time guest when Illya closed the door behind them.

“You have a fascinating book collection,” Napoleon remarked, even though the books were neatly stacked in the bedroom and not visible from where he stood in the room with the adjacent kitchenette. 

Illya stood in the middle of the room, his shoulders slightly tense, his face closed off. He didn’t seem to appreciate Napoleon’s attempt at humor. Napoleon looked at him openly, studying his friend. He appeared - nervous.

“You have been following me.” His tone was guarded too.

Napoleon hesitated a moment, then sighed. “Yes, I have.”

“Since when?”

“When did you make me?”

“Six days ago.”

Napoleon chuckled. “So, I lasted two. I feel rather good about it.”

“You good thief, terrible spy,” Illya said as if it was on autopilot, a trusted greeting between them. “Why?”

Napoleon’s eyes were drawn to Illya’s hand, tapping away on his right hip. “Waverly sent me to make sure you’re not a double agent and secretly working for your former boss.”

Illya’s eyes shot up at that, and something like surprise flickered over them. 

“You think I’m double agent?”

This time, Napoleon didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Relief, tangible as if Illya had said something, flickered over his face. So he believed him.

Napoleon felt oddly relieved himself about that. 

To break the tension in the room, he walked over to the kitchen and found the scotch still unopened he had discovered during one of his visits. 

With a gesture and a raised eyebrow, he asked for permission to open the bottle and pour themselves a drink.

Illya nodded distractedly as if he was mulling something over his head. 

Napoleon didn’t lose sight of him, tracked his movements or lack thereof, out of the corner of his eyes while he fixed them both a drink, settling into the tensed silence between them. 

A thought flashed through Napoleon’s mind, shocking and absurd, and he pushed it away immediately. Clearly, Illya did not think Napoleon had come here to- repeat the event of last week. 

He pushed the glass into Illya’s hand, knowing too well his friend was not the drinking kind. Still, his finger’s brushed Illya’s, and there was a flicker of recognition on his face, something breaking the stony facade he’d been wearing ever since Napoleon had stepped into this apartment. 

Napoleon took a sip of his own drink to mask his slightly shaking hand and give himself time to get over that ridiculous shiver that threatened up his spine. 

“So if you are not the spy in our midst,” Napoleon posed the question. “-then who is?”

Illya’s eyes landed on him. “Are you, Cowboy?”

His tone was serious, and something like pride flooded Napoleon’s chest. Not only did Illya hold him in high enough regard to consider him skillful enough to pull that off, but he also showed that he didn’t let himself be blinded by whatever feverish urge had happened between them. 

“No, Peril,” Napoleon replied cheerfully, “and it’s not Gaby either. I checked. Twice.” 

Illya regarded him for a long breath and then nodded, his face still so serious that Napoleon’s good mood was short-lived. Something else was going on. The tension in Illya did not seem to break, his fingers still tapping along his hip, his eyes shifting between the window, the door, and Napoleon.

Then suddenly Illya stepped forward, his brows drawn together. 

“Peril?” Napoleon inquired as he stepped right into Napoleon’s personal space. 

Heat pooled in Napoleon’s stomach at the proximity, his mind providing instant and colorful images of the morning in the hotel room. Of Illya’s hand on him. He laughed nervously, masking how his skin started to prickle with Illya looming over him, close enough he could smell his aftershave. 

“Peril, I think we should-.” He lowered his gaze, looking desperately for the words when Illya took the last step and wrapped both arms around him, a hug like Napoleon hadn’t experienced since he’d been a child of nine years and his grandmother had hugged him goodbye. 

“Illya,” he gasped, thrown off balance entirely by his lack of reaction, of putting up a fight. He worried that there was nothing inside him that wanted to get away. 

The first time had been about Illya and, to an extent, about his own curiosity. Giving in a second time would have much deeper implications that Napoleon wasn’t sure he was ready to face. 

“Illya,” Napoleon tried again, his word muffled against Illya’s shoulder as he felt a hand covering the back of his head. 

His glass slipped out of his hand and burst on the floor. And then the world exploded around him.


End file.
